


kiss me twice

by WeeBeastie



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Domestic Bliss, Feels, Fix-It, Fluff and Humor, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 16:11:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18641560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeeBeastie/pseuds/WeeBeastie
Summary: haven’t felt like this my dear since can’t remember when





	kiss me twice

**Author's Note:**

> You know how sometimes you don’t like how something ended, so you write something cute and fluffy to fix it for yourself? That’s what happened here. 
> 
> No explicit spoilers for Endgame, just some vignette-y moments of Steve and Bucky living a happy life together because I needed that and maybe you do too. 
> 
> Title and lyrics in the summary borrowed lovingly from that song (y’all know which one), and one line of dialogue cribbed from a Jenna Marbles video because it was too funny not to use. 
> 
> Rated T for swearing and a little suggestive-ness but no actual smut.
> 
> This is only the second time I’ve ever written Stucky, and my first time sharing it to the Archive. Please be gentle!

It’s not exactly like it was before, because time is like - what was it? He can’t really remember, what with the scrambled eggs for brains and all, but it’s something to do with rivers and not being able to step in the same one twice. Anyway, time is like that, for Bucky. He’s been awake and asleep and awake and asleep, frozen and thawed more times than he can remember (not that he’d want to remember most of those times). The important thing is, by some miracle he’s still got Steve. Til the end of the line, like they’ve always said. 

It’s strange and wonderful, living this way - being together in a way his former self never could’ve imagined. They share a small, cozy one bedroom in Brooklyn and don’t have to pretend one of them sleeps on the settee like in the old days. They can hold hands in public, even, although Steve’s never been much for public displays of affection. He tends to blush and shy away when Bucky slides a hand in his back pocket or nibbles his ear. 

“James Buchanan Barnes,” he sighs exasperatedly one sticky late summer afternoon when they’ve gone out for ice cream and Bucky can’t seem to keep his hands off America’s ass. 

“What? I’m just trying to make time with you, beautiful,” Bucky purrs, and Steve goes beet red. Perfect. 

***

He’s driving them around one evening as the sun sets - gleaming metal hand on the wheel, less impressive flesh and blood one on Steve’s thigh - and a song comes on that he knows the words to, without knowing how he knows. He sings along ( _trade the cash for the beat for the body for the hate_ ) while Steve looks at him funny and, in no time at all, bursts out laughing. He even does that thing where he clutches at his chest, he’s so amused by Bucky’s voice. Bucky just sings louder ( _soy un perdador, I’m a loser, baby_ ), feeling his whole self flush with it, delightfully alive. Very little in the world makes him feel as happy as Steve’s laugh does. 

***

In the dead of winter he wakes up in the night to the peculiar, creeping sensation of somebody staring at him. 

It’s Steve, of course. 

“What? Do I look particularly attractive snoring and drooling? Did I miss my calling as some sort of sleep model?” Bucky mumbles, irritated that his own sixth sense woke him up just because Steve has the audacity to look at him. 

“Remember how loud our radiator was?” Steve asks in lieu of an answer. “All that clanking?”

“Of course I do, ya dope, a man could never forget a thing that robbed him of a good night’s rest for so many years,” he groans, rolling over on his stomach and burying his face in the pillow. He waits for sleep, but it doesn’t claim him. 

He can still feel Steve staring at him. 

He turns his head slightly and peers at the erstwhile Captain Rogers with just his left eye. 

“Hey sugar, you rationed?” he jokes, his voice midnight hoarse. 

Steve snorts, shakes his head like he’s embarrassed by Bucky’s terrible come-on. Some things never change. 

“I’ll still be here in the morning, doll face. You don’t have to watch over me all night. You got me, you’re not getting rid of me now,” he says, and rolls over to his back, slowly extending his right arm towards Steve. He beckons. 

“You promise?” Steve asks, so soft Bucky almost misses it, as he moves into his embrace and settles with his head on Bucky’s chest. 

“Cross my heart,” Bucky murmurs, squeezing Steve reassuringly with the good arm. 

***

His old self cared a lot about his appearance, from what little Bucky recalls and from what he’s been told since, the pictures he’s seen. Here and now, Bucky doesn’t have it in him to care quite as much, but he still makes an effort. He gets a little thrill from buttoning up a nice shirt, from tying a tie in a knot that somehow even his metal fingers remember the way around, despite how new they are compared to the rest of him. 

He has a favorite shirt, just like old Bucky did. One Saturday morning right after he buys said favorite shirt, he puts it on post-shower and struts into the kitchen, whistling. He starts the coffee (still can’t trust Steve to cook anything, let alone make coffee; he’s always been worse than useless in the kitchen) and turns to lean back against the counter, posing nonchalantly. Waiting. 

Steve wanders in bleary-eyed a minute or two later, hair at all angles, shirtless and barefoot in a pair of sweats that Bucky’s pretty sure are actually his. Just like old times, except Steve doesn’t have to keep hitching his pants up anymore.

Steve looks at him, looks again, and Bucky can see the recognition dawning, the surprise and then mild horror taking over his expression. 

“Fuck,” Steve says, and Bucky lets out a bark of surprised laughter. It’s not that Steve doesn’t swear (the media has that all wrong), it’s just that his response to Bucky’s shirt is so perfectly succinct. It’s everything Bucky was hoping for, wrapped up in a single four-letter word. “Bucky. _No_. Why?” he sputters. 

“What do you…? Oh, the shirt. Yeah, well. Blue’s always been my best color and I gotta support my husband, don’t I?” he asks, gritting his teeth to keep from cackling. The shirt is a dark navy blue, with a very familiar star-shield design in the center. There’s a lot of Captain America merchandise available for sale these days. Bucky was spoiled for choice, honestly. 

“We are not married,” Steve sasses him, elbowing him out of the way to get a cup of coffee and doctor it up the way he likes. Too much cream, several sugars. Disgusting. 

“I can tell we’re not by how much you don’t bake,” Bucky sasses back, and Steve snorts.

“Oh yeah? Well, you don’t do my ironing,” he counters, shutting the fridge with his hip and turning to face Bucky, one eyebrow raised in a challenge. 

“Hm. You don’t make me coffee,” Bucky says, gesturing with his mug. 

“Pfft. You don’t want me to, you always say it’s a good thing I’m-”

“-good thing you’re pretty ‘cause you can’t cook for shit, yes, I’m aware of my own words, thank you,” Bucky says, and snickers because trying to keep a straight face is just too much. 

“You’re horrible,” Steve says affectionately, crowding Bucky against the counter and carding his fingers through his hair. “You’re a real son of a bitch, you know that? Wearing that shirt just to get a rise out of me.”

“Mmhm. That’s it, baby, talk sweet to me,” Bucky teases, just because the pink flush that Steve’s cheeks get when he uses that voice on him is so rewarding. 

Bucky’s favorite shirt ends up in pieces on the kitchen floor; Steve blames the heat of the moment and ‘not knowing [his] own strength,’ which is utter bullshit and Bucky tells him so. Luckily, a replacement is easy enough to get. 

This time, Bucky buys two, just in case.


End file.
